Midday and the heat is relentless as Candy steps from the taxi and crosses the tarmac towards a derelict club in a patch of wasteland, somewhere on the edge of the city. She steps warily, balancing on the points of her toes with her arms held out on either side as she picks her way through the abandoned terrain. Picks her way around the odd rusted can, bottles papers and splinters of glass, the soles of her shoes sticking to the melted tarmac as she walks. When she reaches the entrance she stops for a moment, her fist poised in the air and her head turning from left to right as she checks the scene behind her. Then she knocks. She knocks firmly, with a three second pause between each rap and the door swings open, swallowing her inside. Pepito pulls slowly into the kerb and flips back his bug spattered visor. He slips from the bike and removes his helmet. He shakes his head in the hot, clammy air and holds out his hand for Raphael to wait. Wait behind him, wait by the bike. Moving closer, with his head whipping round, he scans his surroundings, digesting the place as he fixes his bearings on the building in front. They must be somewhere on the south side of the city, close to the docks. He can smell the sewage, warmed by the sun and the hot, sticky breath of the salty sea as it wafts up his nostrils in sickening waves. He steps forwards, undeterred by the stench of the place, with his heart beating loudly in the crook of his ear and his cheeks bulging outwards as he holds his breath. Closer to the building, a run down club, with bars on the ground floor windows, paint warped and peeling from the walls and a large neon sign that had slipped from its hinges and now lay in the dirt. Pepito moves towards it, closer and closer until he stands beside it with his head pitched down and his lips moving slowly as he tastes the letters in his mouth. GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS. ALL NIGHT LIVE ACTION. By the looks of the sign it seemed that those girls had been out of action a long time. How long - Pepito can't be sure. He lifts his head and steps up to the entrance. Steps up to the door with a hand on his gun. He waits for some moments, head twisting around and his breathing clipped, packed down tight in bottom of his lung. Then he slips into the shadows, with his back squeezed up flat against the wall and his feet shuffling sideways as he disappears around the side of the building. Raphael loses sight of him until Pepito pokes his head out and beckons him forwards with an impatient flick from his fingers.
They enter. But not through the front. Best to keep their heads down and safely out of sight, so they'd circled the place until they'd found their point of entry tucked around the back. Raphael had picked the lock. It was the least that he could do in the circumstances and worth the endless fiddling as the door clicked softly open and Pepito stepped inside. He cocks his gun, pulls back the safety catch with the hardened skin of a resolute thumb and steps forwards into the dampened gloom. He makes his way slowly down a long, narrow corridor with Raphael following close behind, breathing down his neck. A few more steps and they reach a staircase. They reach a staircase and stop. They listen. Pressed up tightly at the foot of the stairs, Pepito flicks his eyes up to the top and lifts his nose in the air. He sniffs. He sniffs deeply. Opens his nostrils and sparks his memory with the undeniable scent of cheap perfume. He knew it was cheap, it was the perfume his mother had worn supplied faithfully by Pepito himself for the last six years of her life. It was the perfume she had dabbed on her wrists and neck each morning, filling the flat and descending like a wayward gas to poison the air in the shop. The same perfume he had used to sweeten her corpse as she lay on display in their living room, eyes closed and lid up. He steps forwards, drawn by the pungent aroma and climbs the stairs to the top with Raphael still close on his heels. They grope their way down another darkened corridor until they come to a door at the farthest end. It's here that Pepito stops. Outside the door, he wrinkles his nose. He catches his breath as he presses his ear to the splintering paint and listens. He listens with his heart in his mouth. He listens to the pulse radiate from his chest and the breath, thick and fast in his mouth. Only when he's satisfied does he lay his hand on the rusted handle and twists with a tilt of his wrist.
Raphael is the first to see her. Darting from behind Pepito's back, shuffling around his shoulder he hops into the room. And he sees her. Ninotchka or Natasha, he can't quite remember but he knows her face. Knows the cut of her sharpened cheekbones, the mousy tint of her light brown hair. She doesn't stir when they enter, doesn't even lift her head but lays there with her spine folded and her head tucked into her chest on a small, wire framed bed in the corner. Raphael moves towards her with his hand stretched out in front of him and his mouth falling open at the jaw. He stops when he reaches the bottom of the wire framed bed and tentatively reaches out to touch her foot. He shakes the foot, gently at first and then when she doesn't respond, he shakes it again with growing insistence.
"Hey," he calls, his voice a whisper, "hey ... hey ..." Of course, she doesn't answer. No flicker in her half-closed lids, no light switches on in her pupils and her foot remains unimpressed by his touch. Pepito stoops down and places his ear by the side of her mouth.
"She's breathing," he says as he straightens his back. "But I think she must be drugged."
"What are we gonna do? We can't leave her like this." Raphael's voice is urgent, pushing through his teeth with a shrill whine as it cuts through Pepito's conscience like a well-placed knife. Pepito raises his hand in the air to silence him, then turns and paces across the floor with his hands clasped close to his chest. He needs to think. He needs to think on his feet. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand he crosses to the door with decisive steps and pulls it open, just a crack. He pokes his head out and checks the corridor. He moves forwards, easing his bulk through the crack in the door and presses onwards on the points of his toes to the top of the stairs. He stops and peers over the banister. He listens for a moment with his head to one side and his eyes narrowed in concentration. Then he turns back to face Raphael, who is watching him from the crack in the door, and beckons him forwards with a flick of his head. Raphael moves out from the room with hesitant steps and joins Pepito at the tops of the stairs.
"Detective Pons," he says in a hushed voice, "we must do something, we can't leave her here."
"I know but there's nothing we can do just yet, it's too dangerous ... if they find us ..." He stops himself and places a hand on the boy's shoulder, shaking his head. "Listen, listen to me carefully now. I want you to go back and get the bike."
Raphael hangs his head and shuffles awkwardly on the spot, his shoulders drooping beneath Pepito's touch.
"Bring it round to the back entrance ..." When he starts to protest, Pepito cuts him off. "It's the best chance we have right now ... we're no use to that girl if we're caught."
"But .."
"No buts ..." Pepito says, his voice climbing above a whisper. He checks behind him with a furtive twist of neck. "I want you to bring the bike around to the back door and wait for me there with the motor running."
"What are you going to do?"
Pepito extracts his gun from its holster and raises it up to his face. "Don't worry," he taps the gun against his nose with a practiced swagger. "I've got it all worked out."
He waits until Raphael is safely down the stairs and retreating along the corridor before he turns back to the room with quickening steps. He slips inside, closing the door behind him and moves towards the girl on the balls of his feet. How small she looks with her knees tucked up beneath her chin. And young, she must have been Raphael's age, at least. Stretching forwards, he takes hold of her wrist and cups her hand in his. He can feel her pulse beating beneath his fingers, beating fast but beating strong and he wonders with a pang in his foolish old heart, how far she is from home. Lured, no doubt, by a broken promise, a bogus contract and the additional threat of a debt she'd never even heard of weighing heavily on those small, white hands. But that's the trick in this growing trade. The trade of flesh, freshly plucked from God knows where, duped by the chance of a better life and sold into slavery for the highest price. Sexual slavery. See, there's the catch because she'll have to work off that debt on the flat of her back. Again and again. And it's never enough. She'll never quite pay for being lured from her home, or pay for the chance of a better life. Pay for believing in a distant land. Or pay for the chance to start again.
Bending over, Pepito grasps her foot and removes her shoe. Reaching into his pocket with his free hand he pulls out her passport. Flips through the pages until he finds her photograph and takes one last look before he tucks it snugly into the sole of her shoe. Just in case she ever wakes up. Just in case he ever works out what he has it do. He's tying her laces when he hears them approach. Half forgotten that they were in the same place. He can hear their footsteps as he fumbles with the knot, footsteps approaching up the stairs, their voices growing louder with each shuffling step. He has no doubt where they are headed. No doubt at all as he drops her foot and spins wildly around him, searching for an escape. But there's no time to panic, no time left to think as he lunges towards the window and scratches with frantic fingers at the rusted latch. Pulling, prizing, coaxing, praying but the latch sticks fast, clawing with his nails and it still won't budge. And the footsteps won't stop. They're moving nearer with a clutter in their step. Moving up those stairs and onto the landing with their voices growing louder. And clearer. Two men and a woman. Closer and closer, until they are almost upon him, outside the door. A hand reaches out to grasp the handle and Pepito freezes. His number's up for sure, so he does what any heavily perspiring middle-aged man in a tight spot would do.
He drops to the floor like a dead man and squeezes under the bed.
Six feet. Four stylish brogues and an expensive pair of heels step into the room. The make their way over to the bed and Pepito holds his breath.
"This the only one that's here?" Candy is the first to speak. She moves up close to the girl and bends forwards with the pointed toe of her stiletto skimming Pepito's head.
"No, there's more .. we had to split them up, stop them talking amongst themselves."
"She drugged?"
"We had to ... this one's a live one, started screaming down the place."
"She's not gonna like this."
"Yeah? Who gives a fuck ... she's not the one taking all the risks here ..."
"Okay, okay ..." It was Francisco's turn to speak. He stops for a moment as he dips his hand into his pocket and retrieves a pistachio nut which he slips between his teeth. "We all know who's taking the risks here so let's just keep calm." Biting down he spits fragments of the shell through the side of his mouth onto the floor at his feet.
"Yeah well, I'm only saying ... I've got enough things to worry about."
"We all do ..." He kicks the shells beneath the bed with a sideways sweep from his foot.
Candy walks over to the window and pulls out a cigarette. She holds it up to her mouth and lights the end with shaking fingers.
"When's the exchange?" she asks, blowing the smoke out through tightly pursed lips.
"Tonight."
"You sure."
"It's all arranged ... what's your problem anyway?" Francisco moves towards her, his feet stopping in front of her shiny patent heels. "Worried?"
She nods her head.
"There's nothing to worry about, it's all been taken care of .."
"And the detective?" She turns around to face him.
"Detective Pons?" He flips his head back and laughs, "I already told you, he's harmless .. and he doesn't have a clue ... he's never gonna figure it out and by the time he does, it'll all be over."
"You think?"
"I know." He moves back to the bed and reaches over the girl. He touches her face with the back of his hand. He strokes her hair. "Tell you what ... if he comes poking around after tonight, I'll take care of him."
"How?"
"How else ..."
"Do you think he knows who killed Rosa?"
Francisco stops with his hand poised in mid-air. "You kidding me? He's not even close ..."
"Maybe so but I think he's following the wrong trail ... he thinks you had something to do with it. You didn't did you? I mean ..." She laughs, a nervous flutter from the pit of her gut, lifts one heel and rubs it awkwardly against the back of her calf. Straightening his back Francisco turns to face her. He steps towards her with his hands clasped behind his back and the sides of his mouth arching upwards in a menacing grin. He stops in front of her with his head bowed and the grin spreading out slowly from the corners of his mouth. Then he lifts his head, leans in close and opens his mouth a fraction so that the words fall from his lips in a whisper.
"What do you think?"
She shakes her head and lifts her shoulders. Takes one step backwards for safety's sake.
"Nothing, I mean no, of course not."
He's watching her squirm, with her shoulders dropped and her spine flexing backwards.
"No, of course not," she says again, "I mean ... how could you? Why? You didn't ... did you?"
He shakes his head, slowly, holding her gaze with deliberate intent so that she doesn't have time to acknowledge the flat of his palm as it comes crashing in from the left. Strike one. Strikes just above her cheek. Strike two is far more obvious as it swings up from the right and lands across her mouth. She lifts her hands and turns her back. Turns her back and touches her face, with her fingers creeping gently over the long, red welts spreading over her cheeks.
Raphael wheels the bike around the back of the building and props it against the wall. He slips the helmet over his head and stands with his arms crossed over his chest. Cocking his wrist, he checks his watch. 11.46am. He lifts his head and stares at the door. Then he checks his watch again. 11.47am and counting. He steps backwards and tilts his head upwards and scans the upper windows. Calculating the distance between the top of the stairs and the door he guesses it'll take Pepito ten minutes to make his escape. Five for the run and five extra as a penalty for his age. After a moments thought, he adds another five minutes. Fifteen minutes in all - five for the run, five for his age and five for his gut. It had to be a hindrance. He steps forwards to the bike and pulls it upright. He swings his leg over and settles himself on the seat with his feet placed flat on the ground. He's already decided. He'll wait another fifteen minutes, it's the least that he can do and if Pepito's not out by then, he'll just have to go back in and get him.
All things considered, it took him a fraction of a second to squeeze out from under the bed. He stands upright and brushes the dust from the front of his shirt with impatient flicks from his hands. Tripping towards the door, he presses his ear against the blistered paint and listens. He listens with his tongue jammed to the roof of his mouth and his heart hammering hard in his chest. He can hear them in the hallway, talking amongst themselves. Francisco is giving orders and the other man responds in a low, gruff voice that scrapes the back of his throat.
"You want me to keep her doped up until tonight?"
"Yeah but make sure she's conscious by the time we have to move them. I want them all standing on their own two legs when we make the exchange."
"Okay."
"And you ..." He guesses he's talking to Candy. "You can tell her majesty that it's all set for tonight."
"She won't be there."
"I know, doesn't want to get her hands dirty." He lets out a low guttural chuckle. "Just make sure she knows it's all going ahead."
Pepito waits until the sound of their footsteps fade before he pulls the door open a fraction and squints through the opening. When he's sure that they've gone he eases himself out of the room with a backwards glance at the girl on the bed and makes his way with nervous steps to the staircase. He stands at the top gazing down with his foot hovering above the first step and his hand glued tight to his holster. And he's just about to take that first step when Raphael appears at the foot of the stairs with his helmet jammed to his head. He lifts his chin with a nonchalant slant and smiles through the streak on the visor. Cursing under his breath Pepito presses forwards but is stopped in his tracks by the sudden appearance of one of Francisco's men in the hallway behind Raphael. It's one of the goons, the one with the head, a squat, thick-boned man he stands for some moments in shock or surprise as he looks from Raphael to Pepito, then back again. But it doesn't take long for him to regain his composure as his mouth falls open and he shouts his disgust from the depths of his lungs and rushes towards Raphael. Raphael spins around in terror. Pepito knows that Raphael doesn't have a chance which is probably why, with a scissoring motion, a graceless leap, he throws himself from the top of the stairs in the general direction of the squat, thick-boned man at the bottom. Quick thinking really but if it wasn't for Raphael's timely push, he would have missed him altogether. They hit the floor in a messy heap and Pepito scrambles to his feet, grazing his shins on the squat man's teeth in their horizontal scuffle. Grabbing Raphael by the scruff of the neck, they run. The run for their lives. Back along the dingy corridor with their feet tripping up in their hasty flight and out through the door at the back of the building. Raphael is the first to reach the bike. He straddles the seat and starts the engine as Pepito clambers on behind him but he doesn't have time to slip the helmet over his head. Doesn't have time to pull out his gun as the door swings open and the squat man appears. Without thinking Pepito launches the helmet towards the thick-boned skull and with a crack of impact that cuts through the air they make their escape.
It was a close call but it would have been closer if Raphael hadn't been bored while he was waiting. So bored that he'd taken a walk over to their cars, a nonchalant little saunter, got down on his knees and carved his initials into their tyres. His own little token in Pepito's master plan and a chance for them to escape if anything should go wrong. Which is just as well really, after all - it's the little things like that, that can make all the difference.
They enter. But not through the front. Best to keep their heads down and safely out of sight, so they'd circled the place until they'd found their point of entry tucked around the back. Raphael had picked the lock. It was the least that he could do in the circumstances and worth the endless fiddling as the door clicked softly open and Pepito stepped inside. He cocks his gun, pulls back the safety catch with the hardened skin of a resolute thumb and steps forwards into the dampened gloom. He makes his way slowly down a long, narrow corridor with Raphael following close behind, breathing down his neck. A few more steps and they reach a staircase. They reach a staircase and stop. They listen. Pressed up tightly at the foot of the stairs, Pepito flicks his eyes up to the top and lifts his nose in the air. He sniffs. He sniffs deeply. Opens his nostrils and sparks his memory with the undeniable scent of cheap perfume. He knew it was cheap, it was the perfume his mother had worn supplied faithfully by Pepito himself for the last six years of her life. It was the perfume she had dabbed on her wrists and neck each morning, filling the flat and descending like a wayward gas to poison the air in the shop. The same perfume he had used to sweeten her corpse as she lay on display in their living room, eyes closed and lid up. He steps forwards, drawn by the pungent aroma and climbs the stairs to the top with Raphael still close on his heels. They grope their way down another darkened corridor until they come to a door at the farthest end. It's here that Pepito stops. Outside the door, he wrinkles his nose. He catches his breath as he presses his ear to the splintering paint and listens. He listens with his heart in his mouth. He listens to the pulse radiate from his chest and the breath, thick and fast in his mouth. Only when he's satisfied does he lay his hand on the rusted handle and twists with a tilt of his wrist.
Raphael is the first to see her. Darting from behind Pepito's back, shuffling around his shoulder he hops into the room. And he sees her. Ninotchka or Natasha, he can't quite remember but he knows her face. Knows the cut of her sharpened cheekbones, the mousy tint of her light brown hair. She doesn't stir when they enter, doesn't even lift her head but lays there with her spine folded and her head tucked into her chest on a small, wire framed bed in the corner. Raphael moves towards her with his hand stretched out in front of him and his mouth falling open at the jaw. He stops when he reaches the bottom of the wire framed bed and tentatively reaches out to touch her foot. He shakes the foot, gently at first and then when she doesn't respond, he shakes it again with growing insistence.
"Hey," he calls, his voice a whisper, "hey ... hey ..." Of course, she doesn't answer. No flicker in her half-closed lids, no light switches on in her pupils and her foot remains unimpressed by his touch. Pepito stoops down and places his ear by the side of her mouth.
"She's breathing," he says as he straightens his back. "But I think she must be drugged."
"What are we gonna do? We can't leave her like this." Raphael's voice is urgent, pushing through his teeth with a shrill whine as it cuts through Pepito's conscience like a well-placed knife. Pepito raises his hand in the air to silence him, then turns and paces across the floor with his hands clasped close to his chest. He needs to think. He needs to think on his feet. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand he crosses to the door with decisive steps and pulls it open, just a crack. He pokes his head out and checks the corridor. He moves forwards, easing his bulk through the crack in the door and presses onwards on the points of his toes to the top of the stairs. He stops and peers over the banister. He listens for a moment with his head to one side and his eyes narrowed in concentration. Then he turns back to face Raphael, who is watching him from the crack in the door, and beckons him forwards with a flick of his head. Raphael moves out from the room with hesitant steps and joins Pepito at the tops of the stairs.
"Detective Pons," he says in a hushed voice, "we must do something, we can't leave her here."
"I know but there's nothing we can do just yet, it's too dangerous ... if they find us ..." He stops himself and places a hand on the boy's shoulder, shaking his head. "Listen, listen to me carefully now. I want you to go back and get the bike."
Raphael hangs his head and shuffles awkwardly on the spot, his shoulders drooping beneath Pepito's touch.
"Bring it round to the back entrance ..." When he starts to protest, Pepito cuts him off. "It's the best chance we have right now ... we're no use to that girl if we're caught."
"But .."
"No buts ..." Pepito says, his voice climbing above a whisper. He checks behind him with a furtive twist of neck. "I want you to bring the bike around to the back door and wait for me there with the motor running."
"What are you going to do?"
Pepito extracts his gun from its holster and raises it up to his face. "Don't worry," he taps the gun against his nose with a practiced swagger. "I've got it all worked out."
He waits until Raphael is safely down the stairs and retreating along the corridor before he turns back to the room with quickening steps. He slips inside, closing the door behind him and moves towards the girl on the balls of his feet. How small she looks with her knees tucked up beneath her chin. And young, she must have been Raphael's age, at least. Stretching forwards, he takes hold of her wrist and cups her hand in his. He can feel her pulse beating beneath his fingers, beating fast but beating strong and he wonders with a pang in his foolish old heart, how far she is from home. Lured, no doubt, by a broken promise, a bogus contract and the additional threat of a debt she'd never even heard of weighing heavily on those small, white hands. But that's the trick in this growing trade. The trade of flesh, freshly plucked from God knows where, duped by the chance of a better life and sold into slavery for the highest price. Sexual slavery. See, there's the catch because she'll have to work off that debt on the flat of her back. Again and again. And it's never enough. She'll never quite pay for being lured from her home, or pay for the chance of a better life. Pay for believing in a distant land. Or pay for the chance to start again.
Bending over, Pepito grasps her foot and removes her shoe. Reaching into his pocket with his free hand he pulls out her passport. Flips through the pages until he finds her photograph and takes one last look before he tucks it snugly into the sole of her shoe. Just in case she ever wakes up. Just in case he ever works out what he has it do. He's tying her laces when he hears them approach. Half forgotten that they were in the same place. He can hear their footsteps as he fumbles with the knot, footsteps approaching up the stairs, their voices growing louder with each shuffling step. He has no doubt where they are headed. No doubt at all as he drops her foot and spins wildly around him, searching for an escape. But there's no time to panic, no time left to think as he lunges towards the window and scratches with frantic fingers at the rusted latch. Pulling, prizing, coaxing, praying but the latch sticks fast, clawing with his nails and it still won't budge. And the footsteps won't stop. They're moving nearer with a clutter in their step. Moving up those stairs and onto the landing with their voices growing louder. And clearer. Two men and a woman. Closer and closer, until they are almost upon him, outside the door. A hand reaches out to grasp the handle and Pepito freezes. His number's up for sure, so he does what any heavily perspiring middle-aged man in a tight spot would do.
He drops to the floor like a dead man and squeezes under the bed.
Six feet. Four stylish brogues and an expensive pair of heels step into the room. The make their way over to the bed and Pepito holds his breath.
"This the only one that's here?" Candy is the first to speak. She moves up close to the girl and bends forwards with the pointed toe of her stiletto skimming Pepito's head.
"No, there's more .. we had to split them up, stop them talking amongst themselves."
"She drugged?"
"We had to ... this one's a live one, started screaming down the place."
"She's not gonna like this."
"Yeah? Who gives a fuck ... she's not the one taking all the risks here ..."
"Okay, okay ..." It was Francisco's turn to speak. He stops for a moment as he dips his hand into his pocket and retrieves a pistachio nut which he slips between his teeth. "We all know who's taking the risks here so let's just keep calm." Biting down he spits fragments of the shell through the side of his mouth onto the floor at his feet.
"Yeah well, I'm only saying ... I've got enough things to worry about."
"We all do ..." He kicks the shells beneath the bed with a sideways sweep from his foot.
Candy walks over to the window and pulls out a cigarette. She holds it up to her mouth and lights the end with shaking fingers.
"When's the exchange?" she asks, blowing the smoke out through tightly pursed lips.
"Tonight."
"You sure."
"It's all arranged ... what's your problem anyway?" Francisco moves towards her, his feet stopping in front of her shiny patent heels. "Worried?"
She nods her head.
"There's nothing to worry about, it's all been taken care of .."
"And the detective?" She turns around to face him.
"Detective Pons?" He flips his head back and laughs, "I already told you, he's harmless .. and he doesn't have a clue ... he's never gonna figure it out and by the time he does, it'll all be over."
"You think?"
"I know." He moves back to the bed and reaches over the girl. He touches her face with the back of his hand. He strokes her hair. "Tell you what ... if he comes poking around after tonight, I'll take care of him."
"How?"
"How else ..."
"Do you think he knows who killed Rosa?"
Francisco stops with his hand poised in mid-air. "You kidding me? He's not even close ..."
"Maybe so but I think he's following the wrong trail ... he thinks you had something to do with it. You didn't did you? I mean ..." She laughs, a nervous flutter from the pit of her gut, lifts one heel and rubs it awkwardly against the back of her calf. Straightening his back Francisco turns to face her. He steps towards her with his hands clasped behind his back and the sides of his mouth arching upwards in a menacing grin. He stops in front of her with his head bowed and the grin spreading out slowly from the corners of his mouth. Then he lifts his head, leans in close and opens his mouth a fraction so that the words fall from his lips in a whisper.
"What do you think?"
She shakes her head and lifts her shoulders. Takes one step backwards for safety's sake.
"Nothing, I mean no, of course not."
He's watching her squirm, with her shoulders dropped and her spine flexing backwards.
"No, of course not," she says again, "I mean ... how could you? Why? You didn't ... did you?"
He shakes his head, slowly, holding her gaze with deliberate intent so that she doesn't have time to acknowledge the flat of his palm as it comes crashing in from the left. Strike one. Strikes just above her cheek. Strike two is far more obvious as it swings up from the right and lands across her mouth. She lifts her hands and turns her back. Turns her back and touches her face, with her fingers creeping gently over the long, red welts spreading over her cheeks.
Raphael wheels the bike around the back of the building and props it against the wall. He slips the helmet over his head and stands with his arms crossed over his chest. Cocking his wrist, he checks his watch. 11.46am. He lifts his head and stares at the door. Then he checks his watch again. 11.47am and counting. He steps backwards and tilts his head upwards and scans the upper windows. Calculating the distance between the top of the stairs and the door he guesses it'll take Pepito ten minutes to make his escape. Five for the run and five extra as a penalty for his age. After a moments thought, he adds another five minutes. Fifteen minutes in all - five for the run, five for his age and five for his gut. It had to be a hindrance. He steps forwards to the bike and pulls it upright. He swings his leg over and settles himself on the seat with his feet placed flat on the ground. He's already decided. He'll wait another fifteen minutes, it's the least that he can do and if Pepito's not out by then, he'll just have to go back in and get him.
All things considered, it took him a fraction of a second to squeeze out from under the bed. He stands upright and brushes the dust from the front of his shirt with impatient flicks from his hands. Tripping towards the door, he presses his ear against the blistered paint and listens. He listens with his tongue jammed to the roof of his mouth and his heart hammering hard in his chest. He can hear them in the hallway, talking amongst themselves. Francisco is giving orders and the other man responds in a low, gruff voice that scrapes the back of his throat.
"You want me to keep her doped up until tonight?"
"Yeah but make sure she's conscious by the time we have to move them. I want them all standing on their own two legs when we make the exchange."
"Okay."
"And you ..." He guesses he's talking to Candy. "You can tell her majesty that it's all set for tonight."
"She won't be there."
"I know, doesn't want to get her hands dirty." He lets out a low guttural chuckle. "Just make sure she knows it's all going ahead."
Pepito waits until the sound of their footsteps fade before he pulls the door open a fraction and squints through the opening. When he's sure that they've gone he eases himself out of the room with a backwards glance at the girl on the bed and makes his way with nervous steps to the staircase. He stands at the top gazing down with his foot hovering above the first step and his hand glued tight to his holster. And he's just about to take that first step when Raphael appears at the foot of the stairs with his helmet jammed to his head. He lifts his chin with a nonchalant slant and smiles through the streak on the visor. Cursing under his breath Pepito presses forwards but is stopped in his tracks by the sudden appearance of one of Francisco's men in the hallway behind Raphael. It's one of the goons, the one with the head, a squat, thick-boned man he stands for some moments in shock or surprise as he looks from Raphael to Pepito, then back again. But it doesn't take long for him to regain his composure as his mouth falls open and he shouts his disgust from the depths of his lungs and rushes towards Raphael. Raphael spins around in terror. Pepito knows that Raphael doesn't have a chance which is probably why, with a scissoring motion, a graceless leap, he throws himself from the top of the stairs in the general direction of the squat, thick-boned man at the bottom. Quick thinking really but if it wasn't for Raphael's timely push, he would have missed him altogether. They hit the floor in a messy heap and Pepito scrambles to his feet, grazing his shins on the squat man's teeth in their horizontal scuffle. Grabbing Raphael by the scruff of the neck, they run. The run for their lives. Back along the dingy corridor with their feet tripping up in their hasty flight and out through the door at the back of the building. Raphael is the first to reach the bike. He straddles the seat and starts the engine as Pepito clambers on behind him but he doesn't have time to slip the helmet over his head. Doesn't have time to pull out his gun as the door swings open and the squat man appears. Without thinking Pepito launches the helmet towards the thick-boned skull and with a crack of impact that cuts through the air they make their escape.
It was a close call but it would have been closer if Raphael hadn't been bored while he was waiting. So bored that he'd taken a walk over to their cars, a nonchalant little saunter, got down on his knees and carved his initials into their tyres. His own little token in Pepito's master plan and a chance for them to escape if anything should go wrong. Which is just as well really, after all - it's the little things like that, that can make all the difference.
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